


Faunlet

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Childhood Sexual Experimentation, Incest, Lolita AU, M/M, Marriage, Nipple Play, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Romance, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Weddings, stepdad au, teen!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently discharged from service, Steve Rogers courts and proposes to Winifred Barnes, the young, widowed owner of a tiny Connecticut bakery. Her son, James, is fifteen, and acts it - cocky, obnoxious, but sweet as cream underneath it all.</p><p>Steve is in love with Winifred, he's certain of it - but slowly develops deep feelings towards her teenaged son that are anything but fatherly.</p><p>A Stucky "Lolita" AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to [ballvvasher](http://ballvvasher.tumblr.com) for the original inspiration - you are so unbelievably awesome, and you oughta know it! ;D
> 
> If the words "Lolita AU" didn't make it obvious enough, let me be clear - this story will feature underaged sex between an adult man and a significantly younger teenage boy. Bucky is fifteen for the majority of the plot, which means he is a year under the age of consent in Connecticut, and therefore, their relationship is ILLEGAL. However, there is absolutely NO mental/emotional non-con between Steve/Bucky, and the rape tag has been used to convey the statutory nature alone for the first several chapters. If this at all upsets you, or makes you uncomfortable, please don't read - I want you all to stay safe!!!
> 
> This AU is based primarily on the 1997 film adaption of Nabokov's original novel - if you've seen it, certain images and lines of dialogue will seem familiar.

It’s still dark outside – just a little past three in the morning – and as Steve creeps out onto the second floor landing, he nearly trips over something long and soft strewn across the carpet.

“Y’okay?” Winifred whisper-calls from her – _their_ – bedroom, a sleepy, fucked-out haze slurring her words into a jumble.

He responds quietly with an affirmative sound, before fumbling for the switch on the wall. The overhead light comes on with a faint electrical buzz, and he quickly recognizes the pile of fabric at his feet as a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, patterned in grey and blue plaid.

They’re still warm, and it takes a moment for the blood previously stuffing his dick to travel back up to his brain, and register that the past fifteen minutes were probably overheard by his girlfriend’s teenage son.

His cheeks flush, but he’s not even sure he has the energy to be mortified anywhere beyond.

 

Silently thanking God for the foresight to slip his boxers on, Steve creeps down the stairs and through the darkened family room, bumping his shin on the corner table and muffling a curse behind his teeth.

The swinging door to the kitchen is closed, but a faint trace of light is bleeding out from underneath, spreading over the ugly flocked carpet, and somehow Steve isn’t surprised by the sight that greets him inside.

Jamie’s sprawled on his belly in front of the open fridge, pouring over a pile of vibrantly colored comic books spread haphazardly across the kitchen floor. The only light in the room emanates from the glow of the refrigerator, and it’s a surefire way to ruin his eyes… Why Steve is even reflecting on this is a mystery, when the most noticeable part of the situation is that the fifteen year old clearly hadn’t been wearing anything underneath those discarded pajama pants.

Steve quickly turns his focus to the pantry.

“… You oughta be sleeping.” He mutters, pulling open the squeaky door and scanning the shelves for something relatively appetizing.

“Y’woke me up.” Jamie replies drowsily, his lower lip popping out on the ‘p’ sound. In any other time and place, Steve might have found it kinda cute.

He obviously needed sleep much more urgently than he’d thought, considering the kid was half-naked and had more than likely listened to his mother being enthusiastically fucked by her boyfriend of two months.

Although, Jamie didn’t seem particularly embarrassed about it.

“If you eat those, you’ll have garlic breath for round two.” He mumbles, as Steve prises open the carton of hummus left on the counter. A dark flush immediately colors his cheeks, half-hidden by his beard, and he’s not totally certain what he intends to do when he swings around, bare-chested and shocked – deliver some kind of paternal reproach? Make an attempt to laugh it off? Defend the honor of the kid’s mother?

None of the above, actually.

Jamie’s fished the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer at some point while Steve’s back was turned, and now he’s slurping it up in big, melting spoonfuls, the excess dripping down his chin in globs of white.

Steve feels something lurch in his gut – something not quite shame or even flattery.

Jamie plops the spoon down onto the upturned carton lid, a few dollops of cream landing on the glossy comic pages, before pulling a box of raspberries out of the fridge. He flops back onto his stomach, feet swamped in too-large white socks as they swing idly over his bare ass…

For one horriying second, Steve realizes his mouth’s gone dry.

“Put that stuff away, and let’s go back to bed…” he manages to mutter out, finally thinking to grab the sliced pita bread from the counter and empty it onto a plate beside the hummus.

“Why?” Jamie asks, nibbling a raspberry off his thumb and chewing wetly.

“You’re gonna be up all night after you eat that stuff-“

The fifteen-year old pops the last berry off his smallest finger and balances it on the tip of his tongue for a fraction of a moment.

“Make me.”

This is one of those moments when Steve’s certain he was never meant to be a parent, because he has no fucking clue what to do here. If Jamie were his kid, he’d follow his own mother’s good example and give him an earful, but he’s not – biologically, he belongs to the woman - probably asleep by now - upstairs, and a man buried somewhere in the local cemetery.

Whatever he’s thinking must show on his face though, because Jamie visibly cowers just a little.

“… Gonna tell on me?”

Steve sighs.

All show and no substance, as usual.

“Not tonight. Now put that away, and go upstairs – and when I get up there I want you to be asleep. I’ll check.”

Jamie pouts just a little, but shoves the snacks back into the fridge and clambours coltishly onto his feet.

Fortunately, the too-large t-shirt falls about to his mid-thigh, protecting what little is left of his modesty. Steve nods pointedly towards the door and Jamie goes slowly, arms full of his glossy comics, and dragging his stockinged feet until he reaches the doorframe. He pauses, one hand starkly pale against the tan-stained wood, and bites his lower lip as he glances back.

Steve focuses on uncorking the wine bottle in his hand, gooseflesh prickling up the back of his neck until he hears the swinging door clatter against the kitchen tile.

 

* * *

 

Winifred always looks stunning when she’s baking. She’d disagree wildly if he mentioned it, and Steve knows that to the casual observer he’d seem crazy - her dark hair knotted back and tucked into a blue surgical cap, smooth, delicate fingers encased in clear plastic, her floral sundress hidden behind a shiny polymer apron. The only person who should be at all turned on is the balding health inspection man who shows up now and then, but Steve supposes it’s less to do with her body – although the bit of fluffed cream dusting her cheekbone is rather appealing – and more the fixed determination as she bustles around the tiny pastry kitchen, overseeing every mixer and set of processing blades with the eyes of a surgeon.

That intensity had been the second thing he’d noticed about her – after the wide smile that crinkled her eyes every time he stopped by the bakery on his way through to New Haven.

Sometimes Steve honestly wonders if he hadn’t simply been inventing increasingly flimsy excuses to slip back into Connecticut – as Nat had been quick to call him on, part-time under-assistant junior conservationist wasn’t the Institute’s most vital position.

He’d still be a liar if he said he regretted it.

Yet another groan slips past Winifred’s lips as she dips an icing spreader into the bright violet mess at the bottom of the food processor, a few still un-broken blueberries floating at the top, and Steve doesn’t even need to ask.

“Not thick enough?”

“No-“ she snaps back, ripping off her cap to rub a gloved hand viciously along her scalp. Soft brown hair stands up in a bizarre, tufted clump.

“- _and_ the coffee grains are refusing to dissolve, which means, ‘surprise!’ Chemistry wins again.” She huffs with a humorless smile, her head cocked self- deprecatingly.

“Culinary school: one, affordable self-certification program; zero -”

“Hey –“ Steve chides gently, both huge arms squeezing around her shoulders as he nuzzles into her mussed hair. She feels delicate and bird-boned against his chest, and an uneven breath flutters through her lungs as he swipes the bit of cream off her cheek with the tip of his tongue.

She smirks.

“Tasty?”

He lets it dissolve in his mouth, before flicking the tip of her nose with his tongue.

“Needs sugar.”

Her nose scrunched up in mock indignation, as she smacked his bicep playfully.

“Pig!”

“Hey hey hey, maybe I just need a second taste, huh?”

“Oh?”

“Mm?” Steve crooned back, lapping at her cheek a second time. A soft, guttural laugh bubbles up from her throat – a noise that he knows from experience heralds either a damn good sample bar from Callebaut, or something significantly raunchier.

She nuzzles into his beard, her breath lifting the short hairs while her hips rock in his grip, and Jesus _Christ,_ he’d never thought about how much you could do in a kitchen –

There’s a sudden, sharp banging on one of the cake pans hanging by the door, and they both jump apart as if they’d been electrocuted.

As usual, Jamie doesn’t have the decency to look even slightly embarrassed.

“Breakfast’s up.”

His tone is blithe, untroubled, evidently completely unperturbed that he’d effectively poured cold water over his mother’s latest attempt at a sex life. What was this, Steve makes an effort to remember through the blue-hot mix of arousal and rage currently curdling his brain  – the third time this week?

Winifred meanwhile seems about two seconds away from filicide.

“Then plate it!” she snaps, eyes wide and ears red, the forced, open-mouthed half-smile broadening her face doing nothing to hide her obvious humiliation.

With a parting shrug, Jamie shoves himself away from the doorjamb and saunters back into the main baking kitchen, arms and legs swinging with floppy, teenaged looseness.

She manages to huff out a laugh as Steve grinds both palms against his eyeballs, groaning.

“Just smack him on the mouth if he gets too annoying –“

“I could think of some better places…” he mutters, willing his dick into something resembling good behavior.

 

*

Winifred stays behind in the kitchen to settle the blueberry conundrum, leaving Steve to creep out into the still abandoned main room – the bakery won’t see much patronage until roughly eight AM.

The little cock-block is finishing up setting glasses of orange juice on the table – “Breakfast Cubed,” as Winifred calls it, three pancakes, three eggs, three strips of bacon on each plate – and almost as soon as the thought drifts impulsively through his head, Steve feels guilty.

Jamie’s had almost ten years to adjust to his father’s death, and in all that time he’s learned to take his mother’s undivided attention for granted – and kids don’t tend to share well, Steve spent enough of his childhood in a pediatric ward to understand that.

He doesn’t want or need Jamie to see him as a replacement for George Barnes – maybe he can try to be a friend, not merely an extension of the boy’s mother…

Jamie glances up from the stove, a little pink tongue tracing over his dry lips… grey eyes fixed on Steve’s chest when he thinks he isn’t being watched…

He pulls out the nearest chair with an unavoidable screech, making sure to offer the teenager what he hopes comes across as a truce-offering smile, but there’s only the typical lip pouting, heavy-lidded attitude in response.

Oh well. It’s not as if he expected much better.

“Going to Gabe’s after school?”

“Mm-hm.” Jamie mumbles non-commitally, and Steve has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes as his plate’s set down with a _thunk._

It takes him several seconds to notice the brown grease stains littering the porcelain, before Jamie’s leaning in beside him. Much too close – Steve can feel warm breath on his earlobe, and Jamie has the same clean, fresh-butter scent as his mother. Like warm bread straight from the oven.

“Don’t tell Mom,” he murmurs, a bare foot pressing at Steve’s ankle, against his grey tube sock. “… but I ate all your bacon.”

A long-fingered hand snatches up a handful of raspberries from the bowl at the center of the table before he dashes back to the kitchen, leaving Steve biting his lip nervously, a pink tinge to his cheekbones.

He’s not blind.

He simply doesn’t want to see.

*

 

“It’s only a week – you can go without getting laid for that long.” Winifred smirks, pecking Steve on the ear as they both heave the final, boxed layer of cuberdon-blackberry-grapefruit-Cointreau cake – her pièce de résistance – into the back of the minivan.

He wants to maintain that he’s not _that_ primeval, that he has in fact lived much of his life without the constant promise of climax - it’s the idea of being left alone for a quarter of a month in the same house as a hormonal teenager that’s bringing out the nerves.

“There’s a pastry backlog that should last you about four days – Jamie knows how to thaw them out – and remember to glaze the loaves before you stack them! If those lovely people from the FDA call, just…”

He zones out a moment, watching her face as she goes on a mile a minute, her face bare, sweat shirts layered over her bird-boned frame, several ratty scrunchies knotted into her still-wet hair…

“… And when the chocolate sprayer clogs up – ‘cause it will – just wash it out a few times with h-“

Steve will realize later that he didn’t particularly think – didn’t even fully consider what was coming out of his mouth until it was too late to bite it back.

“…Marry me?”

She screeches to a halt, mid-sentence, and stares a moment, her mouth hanging half open.

Fuck it all, he didn’t just… Everything in his stomach threatens to come hurtling back up, and there’s still time, maybe he can salvage this…? 

“Say that one more time?”

“Sorry – nevermind; I know how to file the order receipts, and if –“

“Uh-uh, I wanna hear that again.”

She’s openly grinning now, arms folded, and damn it, this is why Peggy told him all those eons ago that he hasn’t got a clue about women…

“I just – I know this isn’t really the time –“

“Not at all.”

“-and you’re usually supposed to do this with a diamond and some champagne, but-“

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Any second now she’s going to burst out laughing, and Steve isn’t certain if he’d rather sink into the pavement or become spontaneously invisible – he can feel his skin flushing as he babbles frantically.

“-if you need time I’ll understand, I mean, God knows I don’t expect you to jump into this after two months, I have no business asking, but–“

“Yes.”

“-you’re beautiful, funny, you… you make a … _religiously_ good apple cake, and – what?”

“Yes, Stevie, yes!” she hisses quietly between bouts of choked laughter.

He manages to breathe for the first time in roughly three minutes, before letting her grab the front of his pullover and drag him into a heavy kiss against the side of the van, her previously stringent schedule apparently forgotten.

He wants to pick Winifred up and dash through the streets, spin until they’re both dizzy, scream with joy and wake up every inch of this tiny slice of nowhere…

When they finally break away slowly, Steve’s fingertips dragging through her hair, it’s to the familiar rattle and _cra-thunk_ of a skateboard against the asphalt.

Reality comes crashing back just as harshly.

“Do we tell him now?”

“After I get back.” She amends quietly, taking his hand and pressing it to her hipbone. “We both… need a little time to think anyway, and I’m not about to leave you with a shell-shocked teenager.”

“Thanks… I guess.”

She rolls her eyes with a huffed laugh.

“We’ll celebrate properly seven days from now – and I expect to see roses and a rock!”

“Understood.”

Steve pecks her nose a last time before she wriggles out from under his arms and walks down the driveway to say goodbye to her son.

Every emotion he’s been taught to expect washes through his veins in the space of several heartbeats – elation, excitement, ecstasy – and if he wants to be good and honest, perhaps a touch of self-satisfaction.

Seems his mother had been more than correct when he’d called her that night six years ago, unsure where else to turn, salt tracks itchy on his face and Peggy’s perfume still hanging in the air.

 

*

 

Blithely handing over the key ring, Winifred left Steve responsible for a baked goods bistro and a fifteen year old boy with a kiss on the cheek and a teasing whisper of “Be a good daddy.”

Roughly four hours later, the morning’s euphoria has already eroded away, leaving Steve wondering what the exact legal ramifications are for murdering your future stepchild.

Jamie’s at least a decent help behind the counter – because apparently, one of the few things he takes seriously is his mother’s business – and plays the part of an angel in the public eye. Little old women simper over him by the hour, mothers with children ask after specific school projects, and the occasional ill-tempered customer just has to see big eyes and a bitten lip before they melt into a docile puddle.

Out of view to anyone but Steve, the cherub grows a pair of horns and a forked tail.

He’d promised to keep his head and with an increasing futile desperation to make this work, Steve endures six hours total of honey-laden back-talk, sarcasm, and silent treatment, all of which culminates in a crooked drawing of a dick smeared out in chocolate fondue over one of the white prep counters, thankfully after closing.

Jamie’s leaning luxuriantly against the wall, the blatant smirk on his face garnished by a splotch of lingering chocolate, and Steve wants to scream. If this is what he can expect for the next six days, there’s not a soul alive who could keep him from flinging this kid into the nearby lake, and cementing it over – just to be safe.

However, he’s currently exhausted and fed up and doesn’t have the energy to so much as shout – but he’s sure as hell not mopping up that obscene, immature mess.

He bites his tongue a moment, eyeing the outline disparagingly. Through the corner of his gaze, he can see Jamie perking up slightly, likely wondering if this will be it, if he’s pushed his mother’s boyfriend to his limit.

The satisfaction transforms to blatant shock when Steve reaches for the fondue pot, dips the tips of his fingers into the warm chocolate, and daubs it across the existing smudges.

“The first step,” Steve growls humorlessly as he straightens the outline, thickening the layers, “is an even contour. You can’t get that, you’re screwed.”

He switches from the pads of his fingers to the very tips, adding some detail – veins along the shaft, some weight to the testicles, the outline of the frenulum under the urethral slit.

“Then establish your light source, and follow it like a bible,” he goes on, adding a few splatters that he can smear around and transform into shading. A few heavy shadows at the base give a suggestion of pubic hair.

“and lastly, you sign and date it. “ His fingers fly, sweeping out his initials with a well-practiced motion and scribbling the month, day, and year a few inches below.

“Cause if you want the right to lean back and be proud of something, you’d damn well better do it right and _earn it._ “ Steve finally snaps, replacing the pot onto the warming plate with a little more violence than necessary.

Jamie looks a bit shell-shocked, his huge eyes flicking back and forth between Steve’s tight-lipped scowl, and the beautifully executed drawing of a penis smothered over the countertop.

A drop of chocolate trickles down the edge of the marble and splashes onto the floor tile.

Steve manages to get a measured amount of calm into his tone.

“I’ll be upstairs taking a shower – dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

There’s a strong temptation to glance back before he heads up the stairs and see if Jamie’s at least blushing, but the sound of the kitchen faucet being cranked on, followed by a short burst of running water, is satisfaction enough.

 

* * *

 

Steve’s not overly proud of his little show from the previous night, but it seems to have done the trick – once he’s home from school and behind the counter, Jamie’s no longer behaving like a brat. Rather the opposite in fact – right up to offering to load the serving plates into the enormous dishwasher by the pantry, something he hates doing; a fact Steve’s well aware of after a month of living under the same roof.

“Didn’t know you could draw.” The kid mumbles quietly a few minutes after they lock up. He’s done nothing but mutter or whisper all afternoon, as if afraid of stepping out of line, and Steve’s a little surprised to find that he misses the smirks and the muffled laughter, if not the derision.

Catch him at the right moment, and Jamie’s a good kid – a sweet kid.

“Sure.” Steve murmurs back, keeping his tone light as he slides the newly scrubbed display shelves back into place. “If you’re going to repair art, it’s better to know a thing or two about how to create it.”

“Yeah, everyone remembers that Jesus fresco.” Jamie quips softly, biting back a smile, and Steve just has to allow himself a chuckle.

The fifteen year old seems to be scrubbing the same spot for at least two minutes before he finally speaks up again.

“I, um… sorry for being a dick earlier, it’s… I… I just thought…”

He doesn’t need to explain, it’s been a little obvious from the day Steve moved in, however much he didn’t want to face up to it. An obnoxious show, posturing for the grown-ups… just a misguided plea for attention by an innocent teenager with a crush.

It’s not healthy – Steve’s at least twice his age – particularly when he’s potentially weeks, months away from becoming Jamie’s stepfather. In which case, it would probably be best to kill the allure of mystery now, and the glow of infatuation along with it.

“Jamie, after you’ve got an hour of homework done, why don’t we go out for a bit?”

He doesn’t miss the way he sucks in a breath, or the barely noticeable eye roll – and yeah, that might piss Steve off just a bit, when he’s making a concentrated effort to be nice. Jamie must catch on, because he reacts almost instantly.

“No! No, I – I mean, yeah, that sounds good, I just… don’t call me that.”

“What? ‘Jamie?’”

“It – my Dad called me that when I was little, like – ‘James Buchanan’ was his idea, he was some kinda history nut, but like… Mom just picked it up, but with anybody else…”

Steve already feels like someone pulled his innards out by the roots.

“No, no no no – I under – what d’you want me to call you then?”

He shrugs, lips pouting.

“Dunno. Whatever you want, I guess.”

Normally Steve would try and lighten the mood, tease him a little with things like _rugrat_ or _minion,_ but something tells him this simply isn’t the time. Ja- no, not Jamie – doesn’t need a father right now, doesn’t _want_ one, obviously. And –

“Bucky?”

He glances up, as Steve tightens his lips hopefully.

“Huh?”

“As in – short for ‘Buchanan?’ It’s the best I could do.”

The kid’s mouth moves silently, subtly, for a fraction of a second, before breaking into a bright smile, and for the first time in two months, Steve knows he’s finally done something right.

“So, _Stevie_ …” Ja – Bucky – purrs, with a shameless display of cockiness, “what else d’you draw, besides cocks on counters?”

Steve shakes his head, biting back a chuckle.

“Mm… whatever I see in front of me, I guess – ‘s long as it’s worth putting on paper.”

Bucky pauses in mopping up the disinfectant, glancing up at him, and Steve can see in his eyes that, for once, he’s perfectly serious.

“Could’ya – I mean… would y’draw me, maybe?”

Blue eyes study his face for a second, tracing invisible lines in graphite and chalk.

“Sure Buck… maybe someday.”

 

*

 

“And you’re certain this is the only place open after nine?”

It’s a fair question – the tiny drugstore-cum-soda shop looks like it could date back to the ‘forties, and something that suspiciously resembles mold is creeping down one corner of the clapboard siding. Several insects buzz overhead, circling the ancient, red neon sign advertising “ice cold drinks” – even though _every_ nickel and dime snack joint offers “ice cold drinks.”

Bucky chuckles, his big eyes glittering in the red-glow.

“When you live in this shithole– hell yeah!”

Slim fingers lock around the cuff of Steve’s jacket, and tug him inside – after a few tries, the wooden door finally squeals open as a tiny brass bell jingles somewhere overhead. Warmth explodes across their faces, evidently sourcing from a radiator humming loudly in the ceiling, but it doesn’t quite drown out the be-bopping emanating out of a decrepit juke-box in the corner, bright-colored paint flaking off the rusted metal.

It’s shabby, but Steve has to admit there’s a kind of charm to all the roughened edges – like a dog-eared, leather-bound book tugged off a grandparent’s dusty corner shelf.

Still, it’s not exactly what comes to mind when one ponders the concept of a teenage hot-spot.

“So this is where the cool kids hang out?” he asks with a slight smirk, not bothering to hide the skepticism.

“Why not?” Bucky shoots back, lip quirked as he leans against the service buzzer, making it screech. His tongue runs across his mouth, leaving the dark pink skin glistening with moisture, and when he speaks again it’s with all the practiced, lazy drawl of a call girl in a nightclub.

“So… buy me a drink.”

Steve’s smile crashes to the floor, unsure how to handle the implication, until a round-faced, dark-skinned woman appears from a side door and slips behind the soda counter, effectively rescuing him.

“Hey there, Pun’kin.”  She warbles with a lavender-lipped, dimpled grin. “Looking for Gabe? He’s upstairs.”

“Nah thanks – just showin’ Stevie here a good time for once, Mrs. Jones.”

The blush reaches down to under Steve’s collar as he’s tugged over, and Bucky hops onto one of the chrome stools lining the bar, the red-painted top almost entirely worn away.

Gabe’s mother gives him an arched brow look – he just responds with a shrug.

_Kids – what can you do?_

It seems to placate her.

“The usual for you then, sweetie?”

“Yep! Two straws – please.”

She grabs an enormous sundae dish from a shelf loaded with glassware, as Bucky shrugs out of his varsity jacket and braces his elbows on the shiny countertop, his chin resting on his hands.

The transformation is incredible – dark-eyed and wanton one second, adorable tenth grader the next.

It’s normal for that age… possibly.

Steve twiddles his thumbs a moment or two longer before deciding to speak up.

“So – what did you wanna talk about?”

“Can’t it wait?” Bucky all but purrs, now revolving slowly on the spinning stool top, the toe of his sneaker resting on the foot-bar.

“Just enjoy the place – ‘t’s the only _real_ thing in this hellhole town anyway.”

A half-smile lifts the corner of Steve’s lip.

“Whaddya mean?”

Bucky’s let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut with a deep sigh, as if he’s inhaling the essence of their surroundings.

“Dunno… it’s old… it knows stuff.”

A breath rattles out of Steve’s lungs as he glances around, takes in the room as a whole – the heavy, chipped plaster molding, the smoothness of scuff-marks at the base of the counter, the burnished soda tap, gold and black floor tiles cracked under the weight of generations of shoes, the scent of sugar and cigarettes from jars behind the shelves and the (locked) kiosk near the back…

The chink of glass on the countertop is enough to drag Steve back to the present, and the grinning fifteen year old waiting for him.

“See?”

Steve huffs out a laugh before his eyes land on the sundae goblet that’s been set down carefully, now filled to overflowing with dark magenta ice cream and frothy, pink-gold foam.

Mrs. Jones receives a sweet smile in thanks, and Steve winces as Bucky pops out his retainer and drops it onto a paper napkin, quickly ringed with moisture. Pink lips wrap around a red-and-white straw, pouting out just a little, and Steve’s immediately conscious of that soft flutter in his chest…

“Try some.” Bucky murmurs, pushing the other straw towards him, an eager glint in his eyes. The expression isn’t one Steve can refuse, so he does as bidden.

It’s sharp and gently tangy, all at the same time – the gentle sweetness of what Steve eventually identifies as raspberry doing a well-waged battle with something sharp that almost burns his tongue…

“Ginger ale.”

Bucky’s smirking, licking some bright pink residue off the end of the straw, that little pink, flexible tongue dancing up and down the length almost hypnotically, and like a trapped animal Steve finds it difficult to look away.

“’member Dad taking me here when I was little…  ‘N then he’d carry me home and we’d count houselights an’ stuff…”

“Must’ve fun growing up… around here, I mean.” Steve breaks in gently, with what he hopes is an encouraging expression.

“It was bullshit.” Bucky snaps back indignantly, the nostalgic haze apparently gone.

“This whole _place_ is bullshit – ya know no-one would even talk to Gabe and his mom when they first moved in here? Nobody wants their kids playing with a “colored boy,” even if you’re only five! And then on Sunday it’s two hours of hymnals and ‘Amens’ an’ Sunday school, an’ then bible study every other day of the week, and all the moms have their little group meetings with doughnuts an’ coffee and ‘try drawing your husbands’ dicks, girls!’“ he mimicks in a ridiculously high falsetto “’– it really spices things up!’”

Two elderly women behind him go pale, and, with matching nasty looks, abandon the magazines they’d been perusing and beat a hasty retreat to the door. Steve blushes a bit and crouches on the stool, trying to make himself a bit smaller. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care, slurping up the last of the soda with a bubbling of suction inside the straw.

“I mean… I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if, like, I’d be getting out of here one day, but everybody knows I get the bakery when Mom’s gone, and…” he trails off, before scooping a bit of the leftover ice cream from the bottom of the glass and sucking hard on the spoon.

“What would you _like_ to do?” Steve prompts gently, hoping to diffuse the live wire a bit.

He shrugs.

“Dunno. ‘Never really… I mean, I guess I like science stuff, but –“

“Aw c’mon, no ‘buts!’” Steve interrupts, and _yes_ , there’s a true smile, finally. “Why ‘science stuff?’”

The conversation delves into biology classes and science fair projects, and a tiny model of the USS Columbia that remains unfinished under Bucky’s bed. The change in the kid’s attitude is almost immediate – there’s no put-on sass, or sultry airs intended to make Steve uncomfortable – just bright-eyed eagerness, and an easy grin.

It’s infectious to watch, so much so that by the time Mrs. Jones has to come shoo them out so that she can lock up, Steve’s alarmed at how much time’s elapsed.

The fifteen year old doesn’t seem shocked as he swings himself off the barstool and meanders toward the door, the retainer crunching between his teeth.

“C’mon Stevie - pay her and let’s blow this joint.”

*

The walk home is fairly quiet, interspersed by Bucky pointing out all the tiny business joints and minute houses where his friends live – and, for the most part, work. The custom jewelry boutique owned by Jim’s grandmother, an auto-repair shop where Timmy (“we call him Dum-dum, ‘cause of his jokes”) lives with his dad and two uncles, the incredibly small Paris-themed coffee house that’s run by a local French family, who’s only son apparently always has to be translated for by Gabe, but is just as much of a hellion as the rest.

Back home, Steve relinquishes all straight-laced parental edicts, and decides that yeah, Mom’s out of the house – they can eat a late supper in the rec room upstairs.

Bucky hollers in delight and runs for the walk-in freezer, and the TV dinners contained therein. So it’s not the healthiest option in the world, but they’re both in a good mood, and Steve’s genuinely enjoyed himself tonight – he can loosen up and eat pre-frozen macaroni and cheese.

Once it’s been established that Steve has ( “Yes, really. Don’t look at me like that!”) never seen _Finding Nemo_ , there’s nothing to stop Bucky from shoving in the DVD and leaning against Steve’s side on the enormous plush sofa, as they watch animated fish scuttle across the screen.

Ultimately, he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed when Bucky sings “just keep swimming” continuously for the rest of the night.




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character visuals for this chapter can be found [here](http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com/post/133541264937/visuals-for-faunlet-chapter-1)
> 
> I'll be posting updates on this story, all my other stories, and randomness on Stucky, Marvel, smutty stuff, pretty stuff, food, cute animals, etc, on [Tumblr](http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com) Come drop me a message, and we'll chat. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is THE chapter, so I'll remind everyone - UNDERAGE SEX. Mind the tags. If you think it might upset you, please don't read it. Thank you!
> 
> Inspiration for the cake fight scene comes from [bistucky](http://bistucky.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. They are lovely and wonderful, and you should follow them now. :)

“Are you positive you know what you’re doing?”

“Will you relax, Stevie – I’ve been doing this since I was five!”

“ _What in the_ –“

“Chocolate mocha with peanut butter filling, chocolate and hazelnut icing and a maraschino cherry – all before I turned six and a half! I know what I’m about!”

It’s a little after five in the morning, but it feels like they’ve been up for hours already, riding the high of caffeine and, in Bucky’s case, a sugary cereal loaded with the kinds of fats and carbs that Steve would have killed for a taste of, as a child.

Against all expectation, their pastry back-stock had been depleted after a rare two days of booming sales, which resulted in Steve pacing frantically with the phone, unsure whether or not to call his maybe-fiancée in a panic; he wasn’t certain if he should be relieved or a little exasperated when Bucky had to pull him downstairs and remind him that he did in fact know how to bake six dozen cupcakes in one sitting. Something about being raised in a family business.

“C’mon!” Bucky had laughed, thundering down the narrow staircase and through the frosted glass-paned door that divided the living room from the pastry kitchen. “It’s not _hard_.”

Nearly half an hour, twelve ounces of chocolate, four cups of granulated sugar, five eggs, and god knows what else later, Steve’s starting to wonder if he’s been led on. More of the cocoa bar seemed to have melted on their hands than actually made it into the mixer, and in a burst of exasperated fondness, he pauses in sifting the powdered sugar and swipes a sticky finger over the tip of Bucky’s nose.  Spinning around with an indignant squawk, Bucky immediately plunges several fingers into the dark brown batter, and smears the mixture down the side of Steve’s face – he retaliates by scooping up a handful of his own and ruffling it into the boy’s hair.

Laughing uncontrollably now, Bucky aims a wet cherry at the center of Steve’s forehead, only to miss and graze his chin instead. Steve’s about to counter-attack with a tablespoon of buttermilk waiting innocently on the prep island, only for Bucky to jump on him and tackle him to the linoleum, now sticky with spilled batter.

“Think you know all the tricks?” he murmurs smugly. “’Gotta few left up my sleeve, old man.”

Steve’s brows raise in surprise, before he locks his ankle around Bucky’s slim thigh, flipping him onto his back and holding his wrists, pinning him down with Steve’s weight.

“’Old man,’ huh?” he growls teasingly, and they’re both disgusting, or should be, their skin caked with chocolate and sugar and sticky fruit juices, the entire corner of the kitchen is a mess, and Steve should realize what kind of a situation he’s placed himself in, the folly, the danger. But somehow he fails to notice the flush in Bucky’s cheeks and the hips curving up, so softly, to meet his groin, and all he can think in that fleeting, indiscernible moment is how _beautiful_ his bright, grey eyes are, his hair mussed from sleep…

In a flash of a second, Bucky’s arched up, and his lips are closed over Steve’s half-open mouth.

Bucky tastes _horrible_ , like processed cereal and heavily sweetened coffee and unscrubbed teeth, but his lips are soft and the tip of his tongue dances in a little flutter along Steve’s palate.

His eyelids quiver, and for one luscious second he’s able to lose himself in the sensation, before dry, hard reality strikes him hard over the back of the skull.

He yanks himself away with a hard tug and struggles to his feet, leaving Bucky sprawled on the floor, his face pinched up in confusion and a little hurt.

Steve sputters for a moment, before remembering how to speak.

“That – you’re – you don’t ever do that again, do you hear me James? It’s –“

_Wrong, disgusting, sick…_

“ – inappropriate. I’m not – I’m nearly twice your age, I’m dating your mother, I – “

Bucky’s eyes have gone enormous and owlish, his lower lip pouting out and his throat working, apparently trying to swallow back what Steve grudgingly suspects might be tears.

“B-But – But I thought –“

Steve’s eyelids flutter shut, as his insides quiver and he realizes, for the first time, just how damned stupid he’s been.

“Buck… I never… it wasn’t my intention to… I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but there are plenty of other… other, _healthier_ options, that – James!”

Sticky hands shove him aside roughly, as the teenager makes a wild dash for the living room door, and the stairs just past.

Steve holds himself still for a moment, before quietly walking to the downstairs bathroom, and throwing up messily into the toilet.

Once the heaving is over, he rinses out his mouth, pulls the cleaning supplies out of the adjoining closet, and heads back to the chocolate covered warzone that used to be a kitchen.

 

*

 

Neither mentions it for two days. Their interactions are limited to a brief greeting in the morning and the occasional cursory nod or blank inquiry about school or the status of a grade report.

Needless to say, their evening excursions to the soda shop, the nearby diner, or even the basketball hoop in the driveway have been stopped, and despite all his better judgment, Steve misses them.

More frighteningly, it’s not the distraction from Winifred’s lingering absence that he craves, as he comes to realize, but rather the smirk on Bucky’s face every time he manages a slam-dunk or, with a conniving little wink, scampers up to the diner counter and pleads with big eyes for a handful of bottle caps. They always gleam with a dull sheen of grease, like everything in that tiny corner café, but as Bucky’s been only too eager to prove, make excellent playing pieces for an impromptu game of checkers on the patterned tabletop.

Bucky is fifteen. He’s a _child._ And still, for the past four nights, Steve’s only been able to lie awake in the bedroom he shares with the woman he loves, sick in his gut and praying silently to a God he barely remembers; don’t let this happen, don’t let him be something so twisted, so _evil,_ someone who could actually find satisfaction in the willing corruption of an innocent.

It doesn’t help – he’s caught himself fantasizing, multiple times, dreaming up some fantastic explosion or disaster; flashflood, tsunami, alien abduction – anything to instantly and completely eliminate every other human soul for miles, and leave them completely isolated, Bucky curled in his arms…

The need for some kind of distraction is becoming desperate, and as Steve scrolls through the list of contacts on his phone, lying in bed late in the morning, he can feel the nausea (that’s become all too familiar of late) creeping up through his belly until it’s searing the base of his esophagus.

The phone buzzes, and he nearly drops it onto the floral bedspread, his heartbeat racing at thousands of beats per second.

The message blips up a few moments later –

**Buck – can i hve a frnd ovr 2day aftr skool? Gotta stdy 4 a qiz on mon.**

It’s just as well… he’s closing the bakery for the day anyway, so it’s not as if he’ll need any assistance at any time… 

Steve replies with an unemotional assent, and few knee-jerk parental nags – no mess in the rec room, everyone’s home by five, no ordering pizza without asking first, if the ice cubes in the fridge run out, make more, etc.

They’ll both need the practice, even if Bucky doesn’t fully understand yet – and if it settles Steve’s conscience, so much the better.

 

*

 

“You’d best have some half-decent reason for dragging me all the way up into Ass-Crack, Connecticut, Rogers, I swear to God…”

Steve lets himself grin, really grin, for the first time in about four days as Sam pulls him in for a hug, the familiar scent of gasoline and Natasha’s homemade laundry soap emanating from his beat-up leather jacket, the rhinestones spelling out his road-name across the back glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

“Needed a second opinion.”

“Dude, it’s an engagement ring – you know your lady better than me, just go with your gut –“

“Says the man who spent three hours agonizing over the diamond counter in Jared’s.”

Sam’s eyes narrow into what their friends have long-since dubbed the “angry-bird stare,” but he ignores Steve’s chuckling, and follows him up the steps and inside.

The trek up to New Haven is unfortunately something of a necessity, as word travels fast among the locals back home – if Steve were to set foot in Isabelle Morita’s jewelry shop and ask to see her stock of engagement rings, every neighbor over fifty would have known about it within half an hour. Sometimes, Steve really does despise social networking.

Fortunately the store is an independent and the selection is rather limited, but Steve still uses up the better part of an hour and a half (Sam standing by smugly with a timer running on his phone) second-guessing himself.

Technically, a two-carat diamond is more than he can afford, but he stretches himself into a white gold setting and an extra two, tiny stones to frame the larger.

The store associates assemble it on the digital screen for him to judge, and for the first time in five days the truth of the matter is finally, finally clear – he’s getting married. It just took several thousand dollars worth of jewels and precious metal to fully understand.

Both Sam and every working employee are quick to reassure him that Winifred simply can’t be anything but pleased – delighted, actually, the ring is stunning. More stunning than he’d have ever considered purchasing, if not…

 _If not for her fifteen year old son,_ his conscience supplies unhelpfully.

He slams down on his mind with a brutality he usually reserves for thoughts of his mother.

He loves Winifred. Of course he does, how couldn’t he? She’s sweet, warm, wholesome, everything he could have asked for in a spouse. When she comes home Monday morning, he’s going to kneel down properly and slide the ring on her finger, watch her smile and brush tears from both of their eyes, hold her close as he kisses her…

It seems strained even in Steve’s imagination.

 

*

 

Sam offers to buy him a late lunch as a pre-engagement gift, but Steve turns him down politely, spinning some (hopefully) humorous yarn about needing to get home before his soon-to-be stepson burns the place down.

After the week they’ve had, he’s only half-joking.

Fortunately, as a newly minted father himself, Sam does seem to understand and farewells him with another hug and a plea to drop down to D.C. sometime soon (“Tatiana is gonna meet her godfather before she turns twenty-one, I want it in writing, Rogers!”) before climbing onto his bike and heading towards the highway with a wave.

Steve’s drive home is uneventful, the radio blaring all the way to keep his mind overloaded by lyrics and cadence and bass lines, instead of the mess of morality and fear and lust that seems to be constantly boiling in his skull.

There’s a single bike in the driveway, propped up against the basketball hoop beside Bucky’s skateboard. Steve doesn’t recognize the color – bright red, with some fancy chrome finishing – but at least it’s only one extra kid to deal with until dinnertime, instead of the usual mob.

The kitchen looks relatively undisturbed when he walks in, meaning Bucky and his friends fortunately haven’t raided the cupboards for candy melts and leftover flavoring ingredients – it’s been known to happen. 

Steve half-heartedly glances through the multiple fridges in the pantry and cold storage before giving up and deciding to order dinner from the Domino’s two blocks away – he doesn’t feel up to cooking, and shuffling off kitchen duty isn’t an argument he wants to have with Bucky tonight.

There’s probably a full hour to go before he really has to worry about food though – maybe more in Bucky’s case, depending on whether he or Timmy or Jack or whoever have eaten yet – and Steve can flop onto the living room loveseat, relatively guilt-free.

If one can consider a man who just purchased an engagement ring, yet looks like a death row inmate, guilt-free.

No matter.

His sketchbook is still sitting in the drawer of one of the corner tables, undisturbed, although the lock on the front cover is a bit of a deterrent.

Funny, he considers as he twists in the combination and pops it open, he’d never really thought it would serve a practical use one day – just a way to protect his private thoughts from outsiders, doodled out in softened lead.

A rose, withering from thirst after a drought; leveled buildings, copied off of the news channel; a smiling, curly-haired woman biting into a heavily iced cupcake, frosting ringed around her wide mouth. Further back, the half-page scribbles morph into more detailed portraits – Sam, back in Basic, Natasha behind him, her hair still buzzed short… His mother, drinking out of one of her bone china tea-cups… Peggy, in her red evening gown… Sam and Nat on their wedding day, snuggled up on Sam’s then-new motorcycle, Natasha’s gauzy skirt and her short ringlets billowing in the breeze… Winifred in her brown fedora and blue blouse, her eyes crinkled as she giggles across the table in the diner, a shared plate of cheese sticks between them…

Bucky, sprawled on his back on the living room floor, i-pod on his chest and buds tucked into his ears… Bucky, leaning out the window to shout at Timmy as he passes by the house in his new second-hand Beetle… Bucky, licking chocolate off his fingers with a grin, dark smears all over his chin and cheeks… Bucky… Bucky… Bucky…

A loud throb from the second floor vibrates through the ceiling, rattling the living room lights, and Steve is startled enough to drop his pencil, before he realizes they must have the stereo nearly on to the max up there.

With an exasperated sigh, he snaps the lock shut again and heads up the stairs, the volume rising with every step until it’s almost deafening, once he reaches the rec room door and wrenches it open – there’s no point in knocking.

The roaring in his ears almost drowns out the racket blaring from the speakers.

 

It’s not Gabe or Jim, or anyone else from Bucky’s usual group, curled up on the pillowy rec room couch - it’s sixteen year old Cynthia Schmidt.

She’s the dictionary illustration for “teenage lust.” Enormous, heavy-lidded eyes, curls that tumble down her back, and full lips smeared in slick, ruby-red gloss. Most of which is now coloring Bucky’s mouth as she writhes in his lap, thighs clad in pink skinny-jeans straddling his hips. Both of his hands are buried in her hair, fingers tightening with every flex of her hips over his crotch.

Steve feels numb as he silently crosses the room, over to the red-leather stereo, Megan Minaj or Nicki Trainor or whatever it is screeching out deafeningly loudly, and switches it off. The sudden quiet leaves his ears ringing, and as the two kids on the couch pull out of their liplock, startled, he realizes that he’s been grinding his teeth, and now his jaw is throbbing.

There’s a red flush painting Bucky’s cheekbones, his pupils blown wide, and with the wet makeup staining his swollen lips, he looks… _God…_ it looks like someone’s used that boy _hard,_ and Steve isn’t certain if it’s the blatant indecency of the situation that’s pissing him off, or the fact that it’s the girl in Bucky’s lap who’s brought him to this state… This sixteen year old girl, and not…

“Out.” He mutters quietly, cocking his head towards the door – it’s a bitchy move, but he’s not in the mood to be nice right now.

Cynthia smirks, in that infuriating way teenage girls have; when they’ve just passed their Sweet Sixteen and still think the word is their oyster. Another peck on Bucky’s lips and she’s half-way out the door, a turquoise pleather school bag hanging off her shoulder.

“’See you Monday…” she croons on her way out, and Jesus, even her voice is pure sex… It’s not fucking fair…

Steve feels the blood drain from his face at that thought, cold sweat and fear prickling the skin up his arms and down his back, while Bucky simply stares at him, eyes wide and innocent as if he doesn’t have lipgloss streaked across his face.

He shrugs, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lip.

“Don’t tell me you never did it when you were a kid.”

And yeah, that does cut a little too close to the quick, because no, Steve never “did it” when he was that age – it took twenty-two years of advanced medical care, dietary restrictions, personal training, and ultimately combat certification for anyone to consider him something remotely attractive; when he’d been fifteen, he could just as well say he’d had all the sex appeal of a raw carrot.

“You could do better, you know.” Steve catches himself spitting out, barely concealing the vitriol as he slaps the power button on the TV with a bit more violence than necessary.

The smug satisfaction melts from Bucky’s face.

“I don’t get you, y’know?” he snaps, shoving several clearly untouched textbooks off the couch, and climbing to his feet.

“Okay – so I don’t even fucking _know_ Cyn, okay, but she’s hot, and my age, and _you_ were the one tellin’ me that I need to try _healthier options_ – well I fuckin’ did, and you know what? It didn’t work. ‘Cause I don’t want any fuckin’ girls my own age – I want _you,_ Stevie! I’m sorry, I can’t help –“

“James!” Steve shouts at the top of his lungs, eyes screwed shut and fingers knotting in his own hair. “James, I never told you to stick your tongue down some poor girl’s throat, I –“

“Oh, and now she’s some “poor girl,” huh? Now she’s not just some slut you caught your jail-bait crush makin’ out with – don’t look at me like that, you don’t get to fuckin’ look at me like that! You liked it in the kitchen, you _know_ you did, and now you hate that you can’t have your fucking cake and eat it too! I can make out with whoever I want –“

“I never said you couldn’t! Were you even listening the other morning, or just pissed that you didn’t get your way for once? Even if I do want - I told you, this – nothing can happen here, James – it’s not just _sick_ , it’s morally wrong! Do you have any clue what they’d do to me if –!”

“You’re a coward!” Bucky screams back, “You’re a fuckin’ coward and you can’t handle that you wanna fuck somebody just ‘cause there’s a risk! There’s _always_ a god-damn risk, y’might get sick or get AIDS or –“

“That’s not the same, and you know –“

“So what?! I want _you!_ When Mom brought you home the first time, I thought you were the hottest guy I’d ever seen in my fucking life, and I knew you’d never look twice at me ‘cause I was just a kid to you, just a dumb kid, and it wasn’t fair that she got to kiss you and touch you and – and do everything with you, but I couldn’t, just ‘cause I’m just a kid, and kids aren’t fucking _allowed_! I – _mmmf!”_

The rest of his tirade is muffled as Steve rushes him and presses their mouths together, hard; both huge arms snap around Bucky’s slim waist and tug him in close, something already frail and threadbare unraveling quickly in Steve’s chest.

When he pulls away, they’re both breathing heavily, and red gloss is smeared all over their lips.

Bucky gasps, makes a strangled, sobbing noise, before jumping onto Steve and clinging to him like a koala bear, arms and legs wrapped around his neck and waist as he crashes his lips to Steve’s a second time. His tongue slips into Steve’s mouth, chasing his own around until they curl together, Steve squeezing Bucky’s ass through his jeans, and everything about this is wrong, so fucking wrong, but for now all Steve wants is to hold this fucking _little boy_ in his arms for the rest of his life and past, straight into fucking hell because where else can he be headed?

He can’t back out, not now, it’s too late, he’s surrendered the high ground and Bucky has him in the palm of his hand, but he’d rather be nowhere else… Bucky’s groin slides along his own, both of them gasping, and with a shock Steve realizes he’s hard, actually hard and anxious and ready to fuck a fifteen year old…

Bucky pulls away and stares unashamedly, panting and doe-eyed, the tip of his tongue resting on his swollen, painted lip, and the unspoken plea is obvious.

Steve doesn’t think, won’t let himself think – he just clutches Bucky tighter in his arms and races out of the room, smashing open the bathroom door and rummaging frantically for the KY in a sink drawer, Bucky pleading breathily into his ear.

“Yeah, fuck Stevie, c’mon, please, c’mon, _c’mon –“_

Bucky’s room is the closest, and Steve does his best to ignore all the white oak furniture, the posters lining the walls, the navy blue bedsheets he throws Bucky over, before climbing on top of him and scattering kisses down his throat, over the little hollow of his collarbone, as far down his chest as Steve can reach before Bucky’s t-shirt makes it impossible, the collar pulled taut and pinching at the skin of his neck.

One of Steve’s big hands slides underneath the fabric, easing over warm skin and tense, quivering muscles, and when his fingertip brushes the bud of a nipple, Bucky jolts with a gasp, his fingers flexing in Steve’s hair.

“I – _ummm_ – lick ‘em Stevie, bite ‘em, –”

Another breathy moan cuts him off, as Steve rucks up the shirt and has to pause for a second, wide-eyed – his chest is perfectly smooth, tight, delicate muscles unmarred by age or any heavy exertion. Steve has no idea what sort of expression he’s making, but it has Bucky wide-eyed and nearly panting like a puppy, before he’s struggling and trying to wriggle the shirt off. For a moment it’s stuck, adorably, half-way up his arms and his head still trapped inside, and with a flash of inspired cruelty Steve dives at those tender little pecs and laves his tongue over each nipple, pausing to suck viciously and graze his teeth across the skin.

Bucky shrieks, flailing, his arms still confined and his vision blocked, and when Steve laps down his belly, the tip of his tongue swirling over Bucky’s navel, there’s a sound of ripping fabric as he frees himself, and lunges at Steve like an animal.

It feels like drowning; the two of them pressed so close, mouthing at each other desperately, that there’s no room left to breathe. Somehow Steve finds himself flat on his back in those blue sheets, his feet hanging over the edge of the narrow mattress, and Bucky’s smirking at him, tongue dancing across his swollen lips as slender fingers work open the fastenings of Steve’s jeans.

“Holy shit…” he half-murmurs, half-gasps seconds later, Steve’s cock throbbing against his palm, and just like _that_ , all his smart-assed self-confidence is gone.

A sudden, sobering thought drains the lust out of Steve’s entire body, as he glances down towards the boy kneeling between his legs.

“Please tell me you’re – you’ve done this before…”

He should feel horrified with himself, that he’s actually hoping a fifteen year old will assure him that yes, he is in fact widely sexually active – _Don’t worry about a thing Stevie, just watch me take you in deep and_ -

Bucky’s gnawing at his lip anxiously, and _shit._ Shit fucking shit shit shit…

“I’m – I’ve seen videos, I know what –“

Steve sighs, and sits up slowly; Bucky must immediately assume that he’s calling the whole thing off, because he panics.

“Nooo! Stevie-!” he wails in protest, before Steve shushes him gently and pulls him in close, settling his head on his shoulder and his back to his chest. Soft dark hair tickles the skin above his collar, but the sensation is merely a tease and makes him harder. God, when had he become so sensitive?

Probably the same instant the beautiful, precious little brat in his arms had shot him a wink from the kitchen floor, nibbling raspberries off his own delicate fingers.

“Steve, wha- what’re you gonna do -?” Bucky whimpers quietly, and as Steve undoes the button and zip of Bucky’s jeans, he honestly wishes he had an answer. He’s just as in the dark, and hoping to hell blind passion and focus will get them through this.

“’M just gonna play, Buck…” he murmurs softly, rucking the dark blue denium down pale thighs and running a hand sympathetically over the sizeable bulge in the kid’s briefs before sliding them off. Bucky squeaks and laps his tongue down Steve’s throat, long legs twisting eagerly in the bed sheets.

“… Want me to watch, hm? Wanna show me how you play with yourself, make yourself feel good?”

Bucky’s quivering, eyes glazed and his mouth slack, but he slowly eases a hand down his tight abdomen and slips several fingers gingerly between his thighs.

“Mmm… What d’ythink about, huh? When you’re touching your cock in the middle of the night? Pretty girls? Or maybe the boys in those posters you’ve got everywhere, hm? You think about them stretching you out, lookin’ all over, takin’ turns and makin’ you come ‘til you can’t handle it no more?”

Steve can’t even recognize himself, not at this point – his voice has slipped back into the Brooklyn drawl he grew up with, and he has no idea what’s prompting the things spilling out of his mouth, filthy things – things he’d never _dream_ of muttering to Winifred, just to watch her eyes go round and feel her spasm against him.

“Ste-Stevie, ohmygod…” Bucky babbles, his thighs shaking as Steve hauls them up over his own knees, forcing them open. The fifteen year old – _dear God_ \- seems to realize the position he’s in and wails piteously, his head falling back limply onto Steve’s shoulder, a slim hand still working his own cock.

“So which one was it, huh? Girls, boys… maybe both? What d’ya think about?”

“Y-you, Steve, _you_ \- ! I – I – I wanna come, Jesus, Stevie, please, can I come?”

Steve’s impressed and more than a little shocked that he’d even ask, but God, it’s so fucking _hot_ … He presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, a thumb brushing across his nipple to make him jump, before he whispers;

“Bein’ a bit greedy, aren’t ya, askin’ to come already – I haven’t even touched ya yet- “

“ _Ungh_ – please, please Steve, down there, touch me, down there, _please_ –“

And there they are, the nerves finally returning to bubble in Steve’s gut, because for all the dirty talk, all the cuddling and kissing and teasing, he’s never touched a man’s ass in his life – women, sure, once they were interested, but this is foreign fuckin’ territory… He takes a breath, tries to hide it, and plunges onward. Bucky squeals in protest as a much larger hand closes over his own, pausing the frantic motions up and down his throbbing cock.

“’Down there?’ Ya already know what you want, huh – thought this was new to you?”

“It – It is, I haven’t – but – I mean – but -!”

He’s babbling, trying to find some explanation for something he can’t or doesn’t know how to articulate, but Steve has a rising suspicion and offers some help.

“You played around with somebody? Hm? Maybe right here in your bed, touchin’ right where you like it –“

His fingertips are cold, and it makes Bucky jolt and shriek into the empty house as Steve traces gently around the rim of his opening, adorably tight and furled up close.

“I – _ohmygod_ \- I – I just -!

“Mm-hm?” Steve hums, still stroking over his hole, his grip firm over Bucky’s cock.

“I’d – _ah!_ – I’d use to… Gabe and I’d fool around wh-when we were really little, jus’ – _uhhmm_ – jus’ playin’ doctors under the covers, ya know? An’ – an’ I’ve kissed girls, but – but –“

“I noticed.” Steve growls, inwardly freaking out just a bit, because _holy shit_ – that’s not what he’d -

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter – Bucky’s still a god-damn teenager, and all it takes is for Steve’s fingertips to catch _just_ on the inside of his rim, before he’s shaking and tensing and whimpering all over, spurts of cum painting both their hands as Steve holds him close and tries to gentle him through (likely) the first orgasm he’s ever experienced with another human being.

When it’s all over, Bucky slumps back against Steve’s shoulder, limp and boneless, eyelids fluttering as he tries to catch his breath.

“Holy shit…” he mumbles weakly, still trembling, although Steve suspects it’s more to do with nerves and virginal shock than any residual pleasure. He’s still reeling himself, wondering what in the hell came over him, and fighting a desperate erection that absolutely refuses to back down.

“How’d you… that… so fuckin’ hot…”

He’s still sprawled over Steve’s body, long, slim legs hooked and spread over Steve’s own as if they were stirrups, and when he tries sit up Steve simply wraps both arms around his bare chest to keep him still.

“Shh – just lie back, sweetheart… Let’s just wake up a little…”

Really, it’s just a silent plea to keep Bucky from moving around, his ass pressed up mercilessly against Steve’s dick – at this point, it would only take a little pressure in the right spots to set him off, and he’s already got a teenager’s semen spattered all over his hands…

“Fuck, Steve… can we…”

It’s bizarre, hearing someone ask permission – almost in the same tone as a request for candy at the check-out lane… Steve burns red at the thought.

“’s not a good idea, Buck…”

Bucky whines.

“…Please, Stevie… please, I wanna…”

His head tips back, neck twisting until he can brush a few soft kisses against the skin of Steve’s throat, working up to his jaw, as far as Bucky can reach before he pauses, doe-eyed and cheeks pinked.

“Can we play?…” he whispers, pleading, and Steve’s heart cracks down the center.

Not even a dead man could resist that.

“… Yeah, Buck. We can play.”

 

*

 

Bucky’s much more vocal than his mother, a lengthy chorus of moans, whimpering and “ _FUCK!”_  spilling past his lips with every finger Steve eases inside him, his thumb stroking the smooth skin just behind his balls.

It’s as much an experiment for Steve as it is for the boy star-fished across his body – a trial of motions and rhythms, finding out what feels good, what doesn’t, and what makes Bucky try to jack-knife into a little ball, his hips riding Steve’s fingers.

Steve’s cock is hard enough to physically _hurt_ , and they both get a shock from the chill of the gel when he finally slicks them up and pushes in.

He’s tight, warm, perfect, moaning into Steve’s mouth as they twist themselves into a kiss, Steve’s fingers stroking lightly along the ridges of rib bones and Bucky’s concave stomach, a loose fist wrapped around his cock for Bucky to thrust into greedily.

Steve’s the last to come, muffling a loud, thick cry into Bucky’s neck, the teenager already limp in his arms, the spendings of his second climax in thirty minutes standing out white and moist against the sweat glistening on his thighs.

 

*

 

Once Bucky’s come to a little, Steve carries him into the bathroom and fills the tub with warm water, cradling him in his lap on the floor until he can twist the faucet off and slip Bucky into the bath, stroking his hair until he falls asleep.

Several stains on the bedsheets have to be rubbed with detergent before he can toss them into the washing machine downstairs, along with every piece of clothing he and Bucky have worn in the last three hours.

The only witnesses are Neil and Buzz, Bucky’s lazy, overfed goldfish, and Steve -lightheaded and giddy from pleasure and fear – gives their tank a soft tap with the pad of his finger.

“You won’t tell on me, huh?”

Their open mouths gape, their jeweled eyes blink, and it’s all the response he can hope for.

Bucky’s still dozing when Steve pads into the bathroom and slips into the tub with him. His breath flutters and something inside him begins to melt as Bucky murmurs in his sleep while he cuddles up to Steve’s chest, kitten-warm from the bath and his lips soft as he rubs them drowsily along Steve’s collarbone.

 

*

 

Bucky seems completely content to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has taken place, and while all he wants is to pull the fifteen year old close and kiss his lips until they’re flushed pink and swollen, Steve isn’t willing to complain.

The pizza gets there a little late, but neither of them really notice, Steve scritch-scratching away in his notebook and his eyes flickering back to where Bucky’s sprawled on the floor, snickering at the computer screen where Kermit the Frog is narrating the mating habits of the creatures from Planet Koozebane.

Steve’s fishing out some change for the delivery kid when the kitchen phone blares out like a fire alarm – why hell they haven’t replaced it yet is a mystery. He probably tosses the kid some incorrect change, before dashing back through the sales room and into the kitchen, only to find Bucky had gotten to the receiver first. Several seconds pass before he notices that all the color has drained from Bucky’s face, and he’s breathing shallowly through his mouth.

“Y-yeah, he’s… he’s right here…”

Concerned now, Steve pulls the phone away and leans against the wall, Bucky poised and tense beside the kitchen island, eyes wide and anxious.

“Hello?”

“ _Steve – we need to talk.”_

Panic immediately drops into Steve’s gut. Winifred never uses that tone except when she’s frantic, and trying to contain herself.

“Winn, calm down – what’s –“

“ _I wanted to discuss this face to face, but it’s been driving me crazy-“_

His heart’s pounding against his rib cage, and he can feel the nausea building rapidly in his belly, working up his throat…

“ _\- couldn’t wait –“_

She knows. She has to.

There’s no fucking coincidence, there can’t be – and he’d thought he’d been careful, they weren’t so loud the neighbors could hear… were they? Had the blinds even been shut? Had –

“ _I – I’d suspected for a while, but I wasn’t certain, and then about an hour ago…”_

Who the hell knows, who saw them, or was it just so obvious, from the very start, before Steve had even understood himself? - He’s gonna pass out, right now, right across the hard tile, but he can’t – Bucky’s standing there, stock still, gnawing at his thumbnail, and he looks so fucking _young_ …

“ _Steve –Steve, are you there?”_

“Y-yeah, what’s –“

“ _I’m gonna have a baby.”_

The radiator hums behind the wall, pumping heat through the vents into the kitchen.

He still feels cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com)
> 
> Hope you all like it! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been... awhile, I know, but after a massive chapter rewrite, this puppy is continuing! Enjoy!

“Who would you pick?”

The pizza’s gone cold and leathery in it’s grease stained box, hardly even picked at.

Steve turns away from the baseball match that he’s not really seeing; the buzzing in his ears almost cancels out the inane noise.

“What d’you mean?”

The light from the TV screen glistens against the moisture in Bucky’s eyes, and his chin starts to wobble.

“It’s just… I think I… d’you love me, Steve?”

He swallows back everything that wants to come spilling off his tongue, as his throat stings and fights to close up on itself.

“You know I do…” he mutters quietly, and the pitiful glow of hope that rises across Bucky’s poor little face is extinguished only seconds later.

“-You’re a part of your mom, and the two of you are impor –“

He feels the brush of metal against his ear as a tabletop picture frame barely misses his head, shattering against the wallpaper in a cascade of broken glass.

“Fuck you!”

Bucky’s crying openly now, his mouth twisted up into an ugly rictus that means he’s trying to fight off sobs.

“You don’t get to fucking act like my dad, not anymore! I don’t care if she’s having your baby – it just means you fucked her, and now you’ve fucked me too! But she’s the only one that matters, isn’t she, huh, ‘cause you screwed up, and – and – I hate her!” he finally screams hysterically.

“I hate her, and I hate your fucking baby, and I fucking hate you!”

The impact shakes the floorboards when he shoves over one of the side tables, the drawer crashing open and vomiting out dozens of pens and useless junk in a miniature avalanche. One of the legs cracks apart with a splintering noise.

The racket seems to wake Bucky up a little, and he stands there, trembling, crying, while Steve bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. His own eyes sting while an ugly mix of shame, remorse, and hurt boils away in his guts.

“James…”

“No.”

It’s all Bucky seems able to manage, before his voice cracks and he dashes for the stairs, sobbing. The noise carries all the way back to the living room, heavy, rapid footfalls muffled on the carpeted stairs before Bucky’s bedroom door crashes shut.

One of the talking heads on the TV makes a weak joke. A lightbulb flickers and buzzes inside one of the floor lamps. They’re the weird spiral kind, that are supposed to conserve energy. Steve isn’t certain why he noticed.

Well, he thinks dully, at least it’s out of Bucky’s system.

He’s not about to leave the mess on the floor, or make some parental demand for Bucky to clean it up himself, since – despite the childishness and fury of his outburst – Bucky is right in that respect. Steve lost all authority to treat him like a son the moment he learned what Bucky’s skin tasted like on his tongue.

And yet, they’re going to have to master the art of pretense sooner rather than later – specifically, by Monday, when Winifred’s van pulls back into the driveway bearing a second, invisible passenger who will need to learn from Bucky that Steve is to be called “Dad.”

He goes a little numb, as the reality of impending fatherhood – something he’s only considered in the abstract through all the years before this moment – finally begins to sink icicle sharp fingers into his brain. Funny, he’s always thought it was supposed to be a thing of joy; Sam had positively radiated infectious happiness and pride that early morning in the D.C. maternity ward, Tatiana swaddled contentedly in her father’s arms as her newborn-dark eyes drank in everything around her. Steve had squeezed his fingers around Peggy’s hip, she’d smiled, and for a moment they’d both hoped…

He shoves away the memory like nails picking at a raw wound, and forces himself to accept that there’s no alternative option. He’ll give Winifred the passionate welcome-home kiss she deserves, host a wedding reception complete with salad dip and cheese cubes, cook burgers on the grill each Friday night, hold Winifred’s hand through each ultrasound appointment, applaud elementary school “plays” about shapes and vegetables, play baseball and barbies, attend kindergarten and high school graduations, drive the van to every family-friendly vacation spot, and settle into the suburban domestic hell he’s always assumed that he wanted.

And Bucky… Bucky will take Cynthia to the school prom, marry her straight after graduation, make grandkids for Winifred and Steve to spoil…

Only the realization that he has nothing to wrap around his knuckles stops him from putting his fist through the living room wall.

The point is, they can both commit themselves to normal lives from this night forward, and whatever happened this afternoon will become a faded memory they’ll both take to their coffins.

 _Please – you’re not a complete idiot,_ some vicious little voice mocks from the back of his skull.

_You’ve screwed up his head far worse than any naked touching games with his best friend ever could, and every damn time you look at each other, or see the other smile, or hear the other laugh…_

Sam would call denial the coward’s way out and recommend talk therapy; but, he considers miserably, that’s no good without honesty – and all honesty will earn him is a pair of handcuffs, and an ugly nine-letter label beginning with a P.

 

*

 

Rain starts splattering the bedroom windows around one in the morning, reducing the glow of the street light to a golden, watercolor blur. A thunderclap rattles the house frame, and Steve’s forcibly reminded of the midnight storms in Brooklyn, when the entire shabby apartment block would sway and creak with the wind…

The sound used to lull him to sleep, even as a child – tonight, it only makes him anxious. He’s never appreciated how distinctly the noise of torrential rain can resemble gunfire, or fists pounding at the door.

The thought is barely half-formed in his mind, when a small shadow crosses the bedroom threshold, and his heart jumps into his throat.

Bucky clearly hasn’t slept either. Both of his grey eyes are red and tear raw, his face still a little blotchy under the light from the window, a half-transparent silhouette of the streaming raindrops reflected on his bare chest.

“Steve…?” he whispers softly, barely audible over the electrical static blaring from the tiny clock radio. He creeps closer to the bed, and Steve’s body goes still under the covers, realizing with a pang that Bucky’s eyes are still wet.

“ ’M sorry… I – I don’t hate you…”

He chokes a little, biting at his trembling lower lip as his finger nervously traces the outline of Steve’s foot under the duvet, as if he’s frightened that he’ll be slapped if he dares to move any closer.

“ ‘M sorry…”

An abrupt surge of protectiveness tears through him, and before he can consider just how many people he’s about to betray, or how this can no longer be considered a lone moment of weakness and poor judgment, Steve’s dragged Bucky into his arms.

The sound of ripping fabric blends into the thunderclap outside as he tears off Bucky’s pale blue underwear, the elastic leaving a bright pink line across his skin.

“Fuck! Stevie-!”

Steve pinches at a bit of skin where thigh meets buttock, and the fifteen year old lets out a squeal.

“You watch your mouth.”

Eyes widening, Bucky nods as a bright flush colors his cheekbones, all the way down his neck to a pair of rapidly hardening pink brown nipples, and Steve smacks one lightly, curious to see if it’ll darken.

“Ow! Ohmygod –“

He whimpers into the sudden kiss, suckling at Steve’s bottom lip like a kitten at a teat, a string of saliva connecting them briefly when they pull apart. His brow furrows up, little gasps rattling out of him with a kind of panicked arousal, and for a moment he looks so adorably confused that Steve despises himself.

Bucky’s insides are still a little pliant from Steve’s attentions that afternoon – it seems like years ago – and he only winces a little as two tentative fingers ease inside carefully, slicked up with the two sad little packets of lube Winifred keeps in her bedside table for emergencies.

Bucky grits his teeth, squirming, as Steve finally brushes over that tiny spot and toys with it idly.

“Fuck, please -!”

Everything pauses, and Steve’s lip quirks up into an odd half smile that sends tingles through Bucky’s stomach.

“Wha’did I say, huh?” he growls, blue eyes flashing, just as his fingertips dig mercilessly into that sensitive bundle of nerve endings, and Bucky lets out a shriek.

“I – please, I – _oh!_ – Steve – wh-what?! – “

Steve huffs out a weak laugh, and closes his palm around the head of Bucky’s pink dick, carefully scratching a nail over the glans.

Bucky screams. He screams and wriggles and begs, his hands fluttering everywhere, not sure whether to grab at Steve’s shoulders or the pillows or his own scalp, and Steve dully wonders if Bucky’s understandable hatred of their authority imbalance is always temporarily revoked when they’re curled up naked and he’s pleading to come.

“C’mon, you heard me – wha’did I say?”

Thighs trembling violently, Bucky lifts his head and shakily whimpers out a reply.

“I – I can’t – no swearing, I-I won’t, promise! _Promise!”_

He’s half tempted to let the poor thing off the hook right there, but judging by the glow in his eyes this is getting Bucky off just as viciously, and Steve can’t resist another cruel touch…

“Uh uh – tha’s not what I said, sweetheart… Tell me again, an’ do it right…”

The moan confirms his suspicions – this little boy _loves_ feeling small in bed…

“ _Stee-eeve…”_

“Go on.”

Bucky’s quaking all over, he probably won’t last longer than a few more seconds, but he still manages a faint whimper.

“Wuh- ‘watch my mouth’ – please, I gotta come!”

Steve kisses him through it, open-eyed, watching him cry out silently and shake and sob – until his beautiful grey eyes dull over, as if still confused by some over-powerful anesthetic drug, and he melts into a warm little puddle under his near-stepfather’s lips.

After allowing them both a moment to nuzzle and croon, Steve eases his hand out of Bucky’s body – he’s not certain when all four fingers had squirmed their way in, but the sight of them sliding free sends his already pulsing groin into throbbing desperation – and pulls both slender legs up over his shoulders.

“You tell me if it starts hurtin’.” he murmurs tenderly, brushing his lips over Bucky’s earlobe, and the boy shudders in response.

“Wuh – what’re you gonna – uh – _uh oh_ – “

Muscles clamp around Steve’s dick as he pushes in gradually, scraping across overstimulated nerves with each slow, deliberate drive of his hips.

Bucky makes a confused, whimpering noise, his left leg giving a few weak, spastic little kicks as his body protests the attention. Steve begins snapping himself inside a bit more harshly, both ears intent on any noises that might be construed as actual pain, but none escape.

And when his own climax finally crashes over him, Bucky shrieking in his ear as he’s forced to the brink for a second time, Steve can’t help but wonder if the pitiless, oppressing heat of sweat-glistening skin is what hell must feel like.

 

*

 

Steve can’t sleep, too much adrenaline and too many frantic thoughts racing at wild speeds. Bucky, on the other hand, sleeps like a proverbial baby. His jaw hangs open limply, and, like a baby, he snuffles and flounders in his sleep, snuggling deeper into the rumpled nest of bed covers.

The graphite lead pencil makes a final scratch, shading in the gentle slope where a narrow waist melds into a jutting hipbone, and the line unavoidably draws Steve’s eye to the indelible, splotchy red handprints left across Bucky’s slim little thighs.

He forces back a sigh, biting his lip numb as he clenches his eyes shut, as if hoping – just like the child he’s ruined – that denying the existence of his actions will make them disappear.

He snaps the lock shut on his sketchbook, shrugs out of the dirty flannel shirt he’d slipped over his shoulders for warmth, and cuddles up to Bucky amid the ugly, ‘eighties floral duvet – in the same place where the fifteen year old underneath him was probably conceived…

Pressing his lips to the soft skin of Bucky’s neck, breathing in the scent of exhaustion and dried sweat, Steve catches one of the boy’s clammy, limp hands and clasps it tight to the pillow.

“It’s a little soon t’ be playing with love, Buck…” he whispers, rubbing his thumb gently over reddened knuckles.

“But if you’re willing to hide… and pretend, for me, then…”

He swallows.

“…then I’m willing to try ‘n hide… with you.”

He can’t manage the three tiny words that he knows Bucky is craving, but he can only hope that, even in sleep, his own depths of feeling are understood.

 

*

 

It’s three-twenty-six AM, Monday on the dot, when the crunch of gravel in the driveway announces the arrival of the end.

Breaking his word, Steve doesn’t have roses or the diamond waiting when Winifred stumbles through the back door, haggard from driving and unshowered, but he stands slowly from the counter seat - where he’s been waiting since nine-thirty – cups her jaw in both hands, and kisses her.

It’s steady and tender, unresembling anything they’ve shared in the past, and when she stares up at him, touched and confused as he pulls away, Steve ignores the agony of his splintering heart before leaning in to kiss her again.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was initially going to be SIGNIFICANTLY longer, but in the end I decided to chop it in half. :p Enjoy!

The whole set-up is so perfectly, cheesily Kodak, Sharon must be having a field day with her camera.

It was cheaper to hold the reception at the house, after the boatload of expenses that came sailing in with the church – despite the non-descript flea colored flocked carpet, the ratty velvet on the pews, and the roaring AC throughout the service.

Trust Winifred’s creative side to be the saving grace; Steve can’t remember who’s idea was behind the fairy lights, but he’d lay down money that it was her. They glitter overhead like a private little star shower and transform the shabby lawn and pebbled drive into a romantic grotto that Winifred reigns over like a fairy queen, a glowing Titania in white lace to the knee.

They both field most of the congratulations, although, out of the corner of his eye, Steve can’t help but notice Bucky receiving far more than his share of attention. It only makes sense – thanks to the magic of Instagram, every guest and their second cousin has been given the opportunity to gush about how the sweet little stepson, blithely unaware of his parents’ impending engagement, had beaten them to making their own announcement by popping the question himself; Steve had thought his heart was going to force it’s way up his throat and onto his tongue when Bucky had interrupted breakfast with a homemade apple cake, “ _Will You Marry Mom – Yes/No”_ spelled out in runny glaze across the top.

Playing his own part with the patience of a martyr, Steve had chopped out the “ _Yes”_ into a wedge, and dove into the family hug fest that followed. The entire scene had been too saccharinely precious to allow description, but their friends and neighbors had lapped it up like ants to sugar water.

“Whoa now - even I know the groom ain’t supposed to be hiding by the snack table.” A familiar voice grates out, dragging Steve from his reminiscences with a shocked jolt.

He’d never have expected Brock to actually turn up – the man had always ranted after one beerlao too many about how marriage was what he charmingly termed a “pussy trap” – and had simply assumed that the invitation would be taken as intended; a polite gesture to an old army comrade who’d been good enough to show an asthmatic special case the facts of military life.

“Got yourself a winner there, Rogers.” He comments with a sideways grin after an appropriately masculine one-armed hug – another trait Steve’s gradually come to accept with Brock, despite the man’s blatant bisexuality.

Steve follows his gaze to where Winifred is drinking up compliments from a gaggle of her housewife friends, her smile crinkling up her dark eyes adorably.

“Thanks…”

“Almost makes up for the whole lawn mower and picket fence, huh?”

He shrugs in reply, something almost defensive rising in his chest.

“Yeah, well… there’s a lot you can learn to like, once you find the right partner…”

Brock lets out a chuckle – a harsh, nicotine-roasted sound that always makes Steve’s own throat twinge in sympathy.

“I’ll bet – what dude doesn’t go the whole fuckin’ nine yards for a tail like that?”

“Down boy, I was there first.” Steve chides with a weak grin, hoping that a barely passable attempt at Brock’s own brand of humor will conceal his rising irritation.

“There’s plenty of fish out there, waiting to get reeled in.”

“Tell me about it – I was lookin’ at things the wrong way before I got here, these small town hicks hide some seriously high caliber ass, like… that cute little slice of boy-pink over there.”

He nods toward the little clearing set up in the driveway for the younger guests, bubble wands and a bean bag toss provided as entertainment, where Bucky is giggling over one of Timmy’s typically corny jokes.

There’s actually no other word to describe him tonight except “cute”; his dark hair side parted and slicked back, and the silver-grey suit and peach tie giving his flesh a creamy, soft outline that all but advertises innocence, like fruit on the day it ripens.

He realizes he’s staring just as Brock smacks his lips, as if already savoring Bucky’s flavor, and Steve’s annoyance finally begins to bubble over the brim.

“He’s underage.”

“Don’t mean he doesn’t know what’s good.” The other man purrs back, his glittering eyes still locked on Bucky’s face - his pink lips are puckering up, blowing a stream of iridescent bubbles for Tatiana, who hasn’t stopped clinging to his leg all night…

“ – just sayin’, he’d mew like a little fuckin’ kitten by the time I – “

“Shut up.” Steve finally snaps, to which Brock has the nerve to actually look a bit affronted.

“What, you pickin’ peaches with little boy blue, or - ?”

“No!” Steve answers much too quickly, and his stomach plummets as he realizes his mistake.

An ugly grin of realization slowly begins to unwind across Brock’s unshaved face.

“Wow… okay then… guess “Captain America” ain’t as pure as apple pie after all, huh?”

“Look, it’s not like – that’s James, alright?”

Thick eyebrows lift in surprise.

“James?! As in, Mrs. Hottie’s kid, James?”

He suddenly bursts into a storm of rusty laughter that turns more than a couple heads, to Steve’s panic.

“Rogers, you are so fucked!”

“Listen Brock, I know what you’re thinking, but – I just – “ Steve babbles, half pleading. “Just shut up, for God’s sake, people are starin’-!”

The other man settles down to a few more lurid chuckles, before reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a pack of Camels.

“Hey, you know me, Cap – takes a lot t’ make me judge.”

Steve is on the verge of attempting to spin some half-baked explanation, act on some flimsy hope and convince Brock that he’s got it wrong, when a firm hand suddenly claps on his shoulder.

“The bride is requesting the groom’s presence – somethin’ about cutting the cake.” Sam jibes with a grin, and Steve gratefully turns to make his escape, his insides feeling hollow.

“Any chance of a bottle of Jack? I’m gasping here.”

Sam turns, and his smile fades somewhat.

“It’s a dry party, Rumlow – there’s kids here.”

Brock snickers again, in a cloud of escaping cigarette smoke.

“You got that right.”

Without any further comment, Steve allows himself to be led back into the heart of his own wedding reception, Brock’s oily, knowing smirk staining the back of his head.

*

The cake slicing is meant to be the centerpiece of the evening, and with some help, they carry it off perfectly.

Winifred’s soft hands overlap each of his own, sharing the pressure as they both help glide the organza ribbon wrapped knife through her home-baked masterpiece of white buttercream and sugar paste peonies. She giggles a little with helpless excitement when they strike the solid white chocolate core, he presses down carefully, and the hollow center of the cake cracks open, spilling out it’s hoard of pink coated candies to a roar of sudden understanding and joy from the adoring audience. Under Peter’s expert hand, the jerry-rigged sound system begins blasting out “Daddy’s Little Girl,” and after licking the frosting from each other’s fingers, Steve leads his wife onto the tiny grass blanketed dance floor, to cheers among the delighted, astounded, weepy crowd.

His beard scratches her cheek as she kisses his ear.

“We love you…” she breathes softly, guiding his hand to her lace-covered belly as they sway gently in place.

“We love you so much…”

Kissing her lips fiercely to hide his stinging eyes, Steve pets his free hand through her waterfall of dark hair, before drawing her head down to rest on his shoulder. As they turn slowly, he suddenly notices Bucky in the crowd, an exhausted Tatiana cuddled up to his chest.

Their eyes lock, and without glancing away, Steve firmly, deliberately presses a kiss to Winifred’s hair.

She sighs happily, and Bucky’s wistful smile widens ever so slightly.

 

*

 

It’s just as well that Natasha designated herself responsible for Steve’s luggage, because he’d had no idea what one’s supposed to pack for a four-day spa trip. Still doesn’t.

Bucky had suggested the Grand Canyon for the honeymoon, and the pure delight and wonder in his voice when he so much as said the name had made Steve want to acquiesce then and there, even if the fifteen year old wouldn’t be coming. However, Winifred – a romantic at heart – had fallen hard for the lazy sunshine and aristocratic Georgian architecture that covered the TripAdvisor images of Norwich, Connecticut, and bridal override had concluded where Mr. and Mrs. Rogers would be spending their necessarily short honeymoon.

It’s not exactly a new kind of experience – Steve knows when he’s meant to impassively obey orders and be a good soldier. Perhaps, to some extent, being a husband isn’t so very different.

He’s just finished straightening the collar of his button-up – white shirt and khakis, picture perfect even when they’re dashing to the car in a shower of soap bubbles – when the screen door slams shut with a clatter and two familiar, lightweight feet begin pounding up the stairs in a frantic stampede.

Bracing himself, Steve turns to face the door, his breath quickening as it swings wide open and Bucky leaps into his arms.

Four slender limbs wrap around his waist and neck, all pulsating desire and teenage softness, and with a quiet little gasp he presses his lips to Steve’s open mouth.

He can taste sugary mint toothpaste, and ginger ale, and raspberry wedding cake, because there are some things that Winifred simply can’t refuse her only child.

Helpless, Steve’s eyes flutter shut as he caresses Bucky’s little pink tongue with the tip of his own, savoring as much of that secret delight as he can allow himself in these few, precious seconds. The door is wide open; anyone in the world could walk past or slip inside, intent on telling Steve that his bride is ready to depart, and find him embracing his stepson in a way that no one would consider paternal…

It’s so dangerous, he almost feels secure.

Bucky pulls back from the kiss gently, and Steve’s breath catches at the soft whimper that escapes, his lower lip lingering just a fraction of a moment before he slips away completely.

“Don’t forget me…”

The whisper hangs in the air, and it’s vanished, as Bucky jumps out of his grip on Steve’s body and races back out the door with all of a child’s boundless energy, a final lip-bitten grin thrown over his shoulder as he rounds the corner, and leaves his stepfather trembling at the center of the bedroom.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“So how’re you likin’ the honeymoon trimester?”

Judging by the grin under Bill Dugan’s bushy mustache, he clearly thinks he’s just cracked a real side-splitter, and Steve concludes that Timmy’s god-awful humor must be genetic.

“’t’s exhausting.” He replies automatically, and with dead honesty.

Between continental breakfasts in bed and prenatal massages, Winifred seemed to spend every conscious (and not a few semi-conscious) moment shoving him to the mattress or pulling him overtop of her, right until the hotel check-out hour yesterday morning. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable – he’d discovered he had a more than healthy appreciation for a pair of pregnant breasts, like at least eighty percent of the male population out there – but a physical body could only offer so much supply to demand.

As if on cue, Bill launches into an anecdotal reminiscence about his now-ex wife’s utter insatiability while she’d been carrying their son, while Steve hastily rings up the twenty-seven count of doughnuts to go and makes unspoken, unnoticed pleas for the other man to lower his voice, just a little.

It’s a pointless hope – not only does the mechanic have a set of vocal cords like a built-in surround stereo, every other soul inside the bakery’s tiny eat-in area at this hour are local guys about their age, who all start shooting him looks that manage to be sympathetic and suggestive all at the same time.

He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but once he’d married his way into the neighborhood, Steve had found himself – without any prior permission or knowledge, welcomed into an unspoken, undeclared club of cargo shorts, John Deere, and portable coffee mugs.

He can’t be positive that the Catholic church would consider it a sin to pray for a convenient lightning strike at the next community picnic, but it probably falls somewhere on the scale.

“… and then by time we actually realized it was her water breaking, we…”

Bill thankfully trails off as Winifred sweeps in barefoot behind the counter, slotting a fresh tray of cinnamon buns and blueberry scones into the display case.

The eyelets in her white cotton sundress allow skin to peep through, and both straps dangle down her arms, leaving both shoulders naked and splashed by loose waves of dark hair. Someone whistles quietly as she smiles, and pads back into the kitchen.

“She wearing anything under there?” Bill inquires in a rare undertone, and Steve shrugs with forced nonchalance.

“No idea.”

It’s a true statement, and doesn’t really merit the knowing wink that the mechanic throws his way.

“Oh hey, no worries sport; hot, scantily clad baker, it’s a small-town tradition.”

He claps him on the shoulder before hefting the enormous box of blackberry jam filleds.

“Make sure y’save your strength!”

With that final parting jibe, he lumbers out the door, and most of the others are soon to follow. Exhaling a long repressed sigh of relief, Steve sets out the service bell for the last few stragglers, and makes his way back through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Winifred’s arranging another bunch of pastries on a baking tray, looking like some kind of summertime wet dream, as she hums along to an old Faith Hill single playing on the portable radio.

“You mind doing drop-off duty today?” she asks suddenly, breaking the moment as she nods to the end of the counter, where Steve’s personal little incubus is wolfing down a bowl of chocolate puffs topped with more raspberries than cereal.

Bucky still has a sort of not-quite-awake wooziness about him from oversleeping earlier in the morning, and for an instant Steve wants to pull them both back into bed – and wow… that particular idea becomes more and more screwed up the longer he thinks about it.

“No problem.”

His wife smiles, and without any real provocation throws her bare arms around his neck and plants a kiss to his mouth, even though her growing bump has begun providing an awkward bottleneck to physical intimacy.

As does the older child, Steve considers with carefully concealed amusement as Bucky makes a retching noise behind their backs.

 

*

 

Something’s up – it’s painfully obvious in every smirk Bucky’s been shooting at him when he thinks Steve’s attention is focused on the road.

Confirmation arrives just minutes after the thought passes through his head, when several ink smudged fingers begin walking their way up his forearm.

“Y’have a good time at the hotel?”

“Sure.” He responds as casually as possible, while Bucky’s hand trails up his bicep and starts playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he privately thinks that there ought to be some kind of award for people who can keep their focus on driving in these situations… however often they happen.

“I missed you, y’know.” He eventually manages. “I missed you a lot.”

Bucky hums disbelievingly, but his grin gives him away.

“I’d have thought you’d be too busy with the blushing bride – guess I was right, ‘cause you obviously don’t care about me anymore anyway.”

Almost dreading the answer, Steve forces his vocal cords into action.

“Why would you think that?”

A gentle waft of cool air is blown across the shell of his ear, followed by a feather light nuzzle.

“Well, y’haven’t kissed me yet, have you?”

A couple of horns blare out in irritation as the car swerves out of traffic and onto a deserted side road, before pulling over to the shoulder and coming to a halt in the overgrown grass with a muffled screech.

Steve manages to crank up the parking brake just as Bucky clamors into his lap, brows lifting flirtatiously while he snaps off his retainer with a squeak of plastic and sucks Steve’s lower lip underneath his tongue.

It’s too wet, too clumsy, their teeth meeting with a painful ‘click’ and Steve feels like he’s soaring, the knots that have twisted up his belly for the past week all releasing at once as his hands wander underneath Bucky’s bright red hoodie, scattering lightweight touches along ticklish ribs.

With a squeak and a wriggle, Bucky struggles out of his grip and slithers backward, until he’s wedged himself into the foot well between Steve’s knees.

All the warning he gets is a mischievous lip-bitten grin, before the fly of his shorts is torn open, Bucky painfully tugs his cock free of his briefs with childish impatience, and swallows down the entire length in one gulp.

With a raw cry of shock, Steve feels the walls of Bucky’s throat spasm around him, and the fifteen year old chokes him back up before falling into a teary-eyed coughing fit.

“That is _not_ as easy as it looks…” he mumbles hoarsely, and _that_ particular statement drags Steve clean out of the remainder of his head spin.

His brain flashes back to Cynthia Schmidt, and crimson painted lips.

“You’re not still…”

Bucky glances up with a raised eyebrow and a shit-eating smirk, which is slightly ruined by his wet eyes.

“Would you be jealous if I was?”

He’s not sure how to reply to that without sounding too possessive, or demanding exclusivity that he logically has no right to, but then his dick’s back in Bucky’s mouth, and he doesn’t give a damn where Bucky picked this up except that he did, Jesus Christ…

For a moment it’s utter bliss, and he’s so damn well locked in that he doesn’t hear the crunch of loose gravel until the squad car’s pulled up right next to them.

The universe goes a little fuzzy around the edges, and Steve would swear he can feel his heart throwing itself violently against his ribcage.

Bucky continues to lavish little kitten licks all over the head of his cock, blithely oblivious to the danger as the tip of his tongue flicks into the slit. Steve’s acutely aware of the way his body is shuddering all over as the window of the neighboring car rolls down like a tread to the gallows, and for one heart-stopping moment the jowly, balding cop seated behind the steering wheel shoots him a beetle-browed glare, before gradually lifting his right hand in an unmistakable thumbs-up.

His eyes widening, breath frozen in his lungs, Steve returns the gesture with a trembling hand.

The officer smirks and rolls the window back up before pulling a u-turn back to the main road, and Steve never in his life thought he’d actually be grateful for unethical members of local law enforcement.

The dizzying relief of the moment and a final polish of Bucky’s tongue over the underside of his dick have him bursting down the boy’s throat, and once the aftershocks have faded a little he yanks Bucky back into his lap and hugs him tight to his chest.

“Wass’ up?” he sounds a little bleary, but it isn’t difficult to tell why, once Steve pops the button on Bucky’s jeans, slips his hand inside, and finds him hard as a rock.

“ _Mmmm…_ ”

“Shh.” Steve murmurs back, still a bit lightheaded from the close call, and rearranges the fifteen year old’s clothing back into something like decency.

“’Gotta getcha to school – ‘s almost eight.”

He can hear the protesting whine before it even leaves Bucky’s lips, and strokes a thumb over his mouth to quiet him down. They’re still a little wet.

“Think of it as somethin’ to look forward to, okay?” he soothes, while Bucky pouts at him, still confused.

No need to scare the kid out of his wits with information about their near brush with protective custody, divorce papers, and prison time.

“C’mon Buck – just try to be brave.”

Bucky groans.

“Hurts…”

“I know, sweetheart… I’ll kiss it better tonight, promise.”

Bucky gnaws on his lips with a stifled grin, as Steve gently pushes him back into the passenger seat and shifts the car into drive, swallowing back remembered terror as his eyes catch on the outline of tread marks in the gravel outside.

 


End file.
